Sessions
by Deborah Staffen
Summary: A psychologist is sent to evaluate the CSI unit in the foreshadow of three cases that could stretch them all to breaking point.
1. Default Chapter

**_Preface_**

* * *

_

Author: Deborah Staffen
Genre: The nearest I could place it was thriller
Rating: R18, to cover all bases
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters of the CBS series
_

A/N: It's my hope that all of you who read this, accept is as more than just fluff fiction. My aim is to seriously explore the characters in a way that is not done in the show. I am very methodical and analytical in my way of thinking and writing. Know now that everything in my stories have more than one meaning and part of the joy, I believe, in reading it is to try and suss those meanings out. If you're expecting a focus of the simply romantical, then you're reading the wrong fiction. If you're without expectations, and interested in a fiction that broadens your scope of thinking, then you're where you're supposed to be.

And to those of you who choose to follow this, I'd like to ask that if you review, you do so constructively and if you choose briefly. I can only know my mistakes if you point them out, and accept my kudos if you give them to me.

_Right, my horn blowing aside, how about you click over to the next web page and start on chapter one?_

Regards
DS


	2. Sessions I

**_Sessions_**

* * *

"Do you look at all of your patients like that?" Gil Grissom asked, glancing casually around the office in which he now sat. He never faired well when made to sit still; when kept from his work; when forced under close scrutiny. What he was doing was mandatory, and in his opinion totally unnecessary, but he would sit through it.

"I'm not sure that I completely understand the question."

He grinned and shook his head. "I'm not sure I do either." Again, he took in the room, now with more care. His back sat to the wood paneled wall, bearing a single modern painting which he could not easily make out. To his right, a thickly packed bookshelf bearing the works and journals of what he would wager were many a renowned psychologist. On his left, a rich hardwood desk, complimented by the only greenery in the room, a Bonsai tree. The desktop was neat, meticulous, well suited to the person she appeared to be.

"You're in here not more than ten minutes and already you're treating my office like a crime scene." She tended to an itch on her brow before continuing. "CSI is in your blood, no one can deny that Mr. Grissom." 

Her name: Jevan Sands. Her occupation: Independent Forensic Psychologist. Her job at present: CSI team evaluator.

"And no one ever has." The atmosphere in the room was somewhat less than warm, and both seemed hard pressed in their stand not to make the first move to delve into what it was she was hired to asses. For his part, he chose to asses her. Competent... more than that, intelligent, analytical and in many ways, deceitful. He considered himself a good enough judge in character to realize that everything in the room, everything she projected, was deliberate.

Her patience did not waver. She had already begun her evaluations on the rest of the team; Grissom was the last for the day. Each possessed a mechanism to shut them off; it was necessary in their line of work. Jevan understood that if they got too close, too emotional, they would risk being driven to insanity. She understood, because the same was true for her. But, of the team, the most walled off would have to be Head CSI, Gil Grissom.

"You seem restless... agitated."

"I'll admit that I am. I was told that the initial session would be brief. I have four cases waiting on my desk and seven more that I need to oversee but instead I find myself forced to idly sit in this room and stare at the four walls." He didn't raise his voice, but his monotone manner got the message across just the same. 

"How quickly this session goes is completely dependant on you. I'm sure that you've already asked yourself why the department hired a psychologist instead of using their own. By that you already know that this is no run of the mill evaluation, Mr. Grissom." He stood as she spoke and her eyes followed, fixed. "I have no pen or paper, obviously; no tape recorder; I'm pressing no questions. The first session is simply a 'getting to know you' step. I have as yet to get to know you."

He picked out a book from the shelf and ran his fingers along the spine, tempted to open it. "You already know everything there is to know. My life is in my work, my work is in that file." Gil gestured over to the small USB stick on her desk by her laptop. "I have interests, but I am by no means interesting."

"Ah," she stood as well, walking to his side, but careful not to venture too close, "I do believe you're lying to me. You're trying to get me off your back by dismissing the qualities that would make me more enamoured of you."

"_More?_" he asked, receiving only a gentle smile in answer.

"You're evaluating the evaluator, just like you evaluate everyone and everything you're faced with. An admirable trait."

"Or a persistent fault." He placed the book on the shelf and indirectly followed her, taking his seat. "It hasn't always been an ally; in fact the only instance where it is, is at work."

She nodded slowly, appearing to genuinely be taking in every word. "In your opinion, is that a bad thing? You say that your life is your work, so why should it be a problem?"

"No, I said that my life is _in_ my work; whether by intention or fate. I know that there needs to be a balance between work and a social life but for me, my work makes it near impossible to have one." Gil wasn't used to all the 'heart to heart'. "Let's just say people don't like being... evaluated."

For a second, the corner of her mouth lifted. "Words never did run more true, but unfortunately for us, it must be done." Silence. "You're free to leave Mr. Grissom, but you're scheduled to return to this... cell, tomorrow at 15:15. And maybe by then, you'll realize that this isn't as tortursome as you've made it out to be." 

Not so much tortursome as it was tiresome. His mind had been firing at one hundred functions a minute for the past couple of days. All of it was case related, and until now, he hadn't really bothered to slow down and comprehend just how crazy it seemed. And until now, he hadn't had the time. But being forced to sit still for that half hour had exhausted him, ironically enough. And so, it was one of those rare occasions where his body forced his mind to retire and get a good nights sleep as opposed to the other way around. He looked down at his watch as he walked through the corridors, 19:36. An escalator trip, a short walk across the somewhat busy street, and an elevator ride later, he was back at his office.

He found Sara and Warrick in Toxicology. If nothing, the members of the unit didn't just take CSI as a job, but a way of life. Everyday they gave it their all, and he didn't doubt it for a second. The fact that they lived on caffeine and sugar for spells at a time was evident by the trashcans in the hallway, which Grissom noticed needed emptying. He decided to check in on them, then say his goodnights. 

"Still working on the Dougray case?" he asked.

"Actually, we're done." Sara replied. She triumphantly waved a small CD in the air and draped her arm around Warrick. "What's on this disc may have taken us a long... long time to compile but, it's done."

Warrick couldn't help but smile at her. "Blood work showed high amounts of Quinine in Nathan Dougray's bloodstream. It's an alkaloid used to treat malaria but an overdose can be lethal."

"In this case, it was."

"Dougray recently came back from South East Asia, backpacking from Cambodia, to Malaysia, the Philippines. Pollen fibers found in his backpack confirm that he purchased the Quinine there."

"How did he even get it through customs?"

"He smuggled it in. Makes you wonder, doesn't it? With all the security measures we've got in place." Warrick offered. "From the reading material and paraphernalia we found in his apartment, he believed Western medicine was ineffective. His medicine cabinets were stocked with herbs and oils; his fridge, only organic foods."

"Poor bastard. The remedy he thought would do nothing but protect, ended up being the very thing that killed him." As tragic as the conclusion was, Gil couldn't help but be thankful there was one less case to worry about. "I'm turning in for the night."

The shock on both their faces was clear. Off the top of their heads, they'd never, in their years of working with Grissom, heard him utter those words. He was always the first one in when there was work to be done, and the last one to leave. On any other night, he would've tried to explain himself; bring on a legitimate reason for the dent in his 'Superman' persona. But this was not that night, and so he left without another word, content to spend the rest of it doing what he found so remarkably difficult to do... nothing.

"Yesterday I was up until about one watching a show on advancements in technology." Nick began, walking side by side with Catherine as they made their way into a dilapidated apartment block. "They showed all kinds of gadgets and machinery, hell nowadays we can even control computers with our minds if the circuitry's done right. A lot of the stuff was wishful thinking, some of it guided optimism, and then there were the few that actually seemed to hold some ground. One in particular got me really interested." They passed two beat cops, and a multiple more of inquisitive tenants.

"Which I'm sure you're planning on telling me." she finally said, having noticed his dramatic pause. To anyone else, she would've seemed irritated by his talk, but they both knew she wasn't. Truth was, unimportant topics and friendly conversation was what kept the CSIs from hardening after what they faced day after day.

"Well, since you asked..." joked Nick. "Tiny register chips that are administered at birth. Your name, date of birth, social security number; they're all on there from the minute you pop your head into the world. Home address, school, occupation, marital status as well. Your health can be monitored; cholesterol, heart rate, blood sugar levels; goes as far as your entire medical history. They could even allow you access to current accounts so that you pay by running, lets say your hand, over a scanner.

He slid the gate of the elevator closed and she tapped the button marked, four. "Impressive, but for all of the perks, there are an equal share of disadvantages to having everything about you monitored."

"Alright, I'll bite." 

"Suppose the wrong person scans your hand. The kind of guy you'd hate to meet, period, much less in a dark alley. All of that information, everything you could possibly know down to your phobias and blood type, you've just handed to him on a silver platter. Or how about the monitoring of your body? Raised temperature and heartbeat, release of endorphins; you'd broadcast that you're having sex almost immediately. They could even find out that you're pregnant, what sex the baby is and if it happens, whether there was a miscarriage or an abortion. All of that aside, I haven't even mentioned the possibility of converting these, register chips into tracking devices. If you ask me, it borders way too close to serious invasion of privacy."

He stayed still as the elevator stopped and she got off. "Anyone ever tell you that you're paranoid?"

The crime scene was obvious. Three or four police officers stood at the door of the apartment, the same amount were doing their best to keep the neighbors from disturbing the evidence or interfering with the investigation. A friendly face came into the corridor to greet them; Det. Jim Brass. Pleasantries were exchanged, the sort earned from years of familiarity. They weren't here to start idle conversation; only to do their jobs. Brass knew the drill, so he'd kept the beat cops out of the room. There would be time to examine all of the evidence later, but what was most important was that forensics got everything they needed first, and uncontaminated. 

"Now this is interesting." Nick sighed.

A single seater couch; torn, tattered and by far not in the best shape. It stood smack in the middle of an oval apartment; a bachelor pad to be more descriptive. A small kitchen left of where they stood; no food, dishes, cutlery to speak of. There was no bed either; odd considering that someone actually lived in the glorified cardboard box. The television set was still on, playing reruns of Looney Toons. No curtains on the windows; no blinds. No lamps, tables or chairs; nothing save for the TV set, the couch, and the failing fridge in the kitchen. Nick moved closer, taken aback slightly by the smell as he reached the couch. A man sat, staring blankly at the set. He still held the remote control in his right hand; eyes stood eerily wide. At first glance, he appeared to be alive, but a second or two later, you didn't have to guess that he wasn't.

"You wouldn't happen to have any idea what happened here, would you Brass?" asked Catharine, standing on the other side of the deceased, looking over to Jim who stood behind the couch.

"Not even a clue."

"Great." Nick put down his forensic kit and removed a set of latex gloves; the snapping sound ringing through the just short of empty room. "That's just great."

Jim smiled and prepared to give them their space. "No one in this town doubts you CSIs. So get to work, and show us what it is that makes you the best."

End Chapter One

_A/n: Thanks Fe and Laredo Grissom for pointing out my error!_


	3. Sessions II

**_Sessions_**

* * *

"Hi, I'm sorry I'm a little late." Warrick apologized, after having knocked lightly on the large oak door.

The raven haired psychologist smiled in response. "Don't worry about it, I used the time wisely." She went back to her laptop and continued to type. "Please, take your seat while I finish up." Her fingers glided over the keyboard, evidence that she was quite used to typing long reports as such. It would be close to five minutes before she finally moved from behind her desk. "So, how are you?" 

"Good. Sara and I wrapped up a case yesterday; almost through another one. At CSI, you get your good weeks, and your bad weeks. This is one of the good ones." He adjusted his shirt the way he always did, more habit than necessity. "How about you?" 

"I guess I'm having one of those good weeks too." This time, their conversation was going on record, but still she held no pen and paper. "Yesterday was a test run; today, I'm afraid things are going to have to get slightly more formal." Warrick nodded and awaited instructions. "Why don't you tell me about yourself." 

"Hmmm..." He pursed his lips in thought. "I was born and raised right here in Las Vegas. My mom died, my dad was non-existent, so my grandmother took care of me. Sweetest woman I know, but that doesn't mean that she wasn't strict. I'll give her this; her being the way she was what kept me on the right path..." It was evident when he stopped mid-sentence; something he held back. I wouldn't think of living anywhere else but here. This town's a part of me, so I guess I've gotta do my part to look after it." 

"Right. But all of that I'll read in your file. No, I want you to tell _me_ about _you_, the you that isn't in 2D." She noticed him become slightly restless. "Warrick, I want you to understand that in here, you don't need to be modest, and you don't need to sugar coat anything. What's being recorded stays between us, you have my word." 

His eyes were intense, questioning, and not all together trusting. She'd seen it in all of them; once again, a trait from the job. "I was a lot of things before a CSI. Bell hop, taxi driver, grave digger; but the one thing I stuck with the longest, was being a runner." He paused, checking to see whether she understood what that was. She nodded. "I used to love it; being flush, hooked up to all the hotspots in town, getting to know people through a network. It isn't anything to be proud of. I never used a gun or anything, but I still messed up a couple of peoples lives with the stuff I was peddling. That's not a good feeling." 

Again she nodded, and with a smile as warm as they came, and a voice as smooth as fine wine, she said: "I can only imagine." 

"But I got myself out of it. I never wanted to get trapped in that snake pit; I suppose it was easier for me since I never had an addiction to the stuff. For a lot of the people I used to call friends, it's hell." He took a moment to remember them, some of whose murders he'd been a CSI on. They knew what staying in the game meant, but that didn't have much control over it. Junkies never did. "I may be a CSI, but I haven't forgotten about my life before. I still know a few people, DJ when I need to." That was an understatement. Mention his name at any hub, and someone's bound to know, or have heard of, him. "I'll never escape the club life." 

"Well, that's a good thing. Your past has made you who you are, you can't just abandon it, you shouldn't. It never helps to forget, otherwise how do we learn. It's healthy that there's still a part of it in you." she explained. "That club life of yours must be quite exciting. Any romantic interests?" 

He shook his head. "I've had my heart broken once, that's enough. I haven't been _serious_ with anyone in years but that doesn't stop me from _trying_ to break away from CSI and have a little... fun." 

"I can imagine, you're very handsome." Jevan could tell that he wasn't quite sure how to respond. "So tell me, now that CSI is your life, do you even remember why you got into it in the first place?" 

"It'd sound great if I could tell you that I felt like righting all the wrongs I committed in my past. But, to tell you the truth, I don't really know the answer to that. I felt drawn to it; seemed like the right thing to be doing for me." 

"You answered a true calling. And from what I hear from the department, you're extremely good at what you do." 

They were interrupted by his sudden reaction to the vibration in his pants. "Phone." he said simply. She looked back acceptingly and waited for him to finish his brief conversation. "I'm sorry, I have to go. Another case just fell into my lap." 

"I hope the week stays good for you." Jevan stood with him and walked him to the door. "I'll give you a call sometime and schedule another session." 

He nodded and adjusted his shirt. "Sure. Bye." 

Bystanders littered Edward st. All of them where trying to peer inside; no one really knew what it was they were supposed to be interested in, but there was interest, so there had to be something there. The only ones who did know where those who had been inside. Most of them were Joe Average guys, hitting Figolo's just after work. The sun hadn't even set yet. Everyone was still a little confused by what it all meant. They'd only read about things like this in the tabloids, only seen things like this on TV. It would be a story to pass on to the grandchildren when the time came old enough for them to hear it. 

Grissom searched for an open area to park the black SUV. It wasn't an easy feat, with all the civilians, their vehicles and the officers vehicles. Finally, with the car nested, he and Warrick stepped out, moving round to the backseat to grab their kits. The police line had been laid out, but that didn't stop the group from crowding any way in. Brass appeared out of the thick, and parted them enough for the two to get through. It seemed he, like the CSI unit, had his hands full. 

Figolo's was a classic bar turned into a less than adequate watering hole. Two, green top pool tables in series; near destroyed overhead lights above them. A bar counter as dodgy as the place itself, maroon topped bar stools, all of which seemed to have long passed their prime; small, two to three seater tables with spilt beer and scattered salted peanuts for decoration. Smoke, the air was rank with it. The typical nicotine smell you'd expect to find in a place of such, but it wasn't only that. There was another smell, the smoke of burnt wood mixed with a wet and rather vile second ingredient. The charred remains of what was once a spit and polish 1920s phone booth stood dead ahead. Warrick and Gil, had already walked over, both of them inquisitive. Two feet, legs leading midway up the calf, and then, nothing. A wet substance puddled around the appendages. 

"I don't know about either of you, but this is the first time I've come across SHC." Jim Brass said slowly. The sight was enough to boggle any mind. 

"Assuming the phenomenon actually exists, we don't know that that's what it was." said Gil, reserving his judgment like any CSI had been trained to do. "Spontaneous human combustion is the lazy answer to a case like this. We won't know anything until we can begin analyzing samples." 

"Yeah, I know." Jim rubbed his chin in pause. "So far, we have no idea who she is; ID must've burnt in there along with her. All witnesses could tell us was that she was blonde, not too tall. Bar tender says that she comes in from time to time; heavy smoker and drinker too." He continued. "Sorry to do this to you guys again but, you're going to have to start from scratch." 

"I guess we'll have to. Could you get your guys to pull back a bit?" asked Gil. 

"Of course. You guys have the floor." He left, but not before assigning two officers to make sure that the public stayed out. 

Warrick shook his head and knelt down, by this time he'd already removed the unit standard digital camera from his kit. The flashes filled the room with a bright white. Each position being shot three times by the automatic function near the lens. "SHC or not, this is definitely one of the stranger cases." 

"I won't disagree with you on that." They swapped positions and Grissom now inspected the floor of the booth while Warrick continued to photograph the exterior. "But cases of SHC have always been circumstantial Theories ranging from rogue cells to subatomic 'pyrotrons'. None with any true scientific case study or basis." 

As Gil carefully scrapped small amounts of the charred wood into an airtight container, Warrick used a cotton swab to collect a sample of the mixture of fat and other compounds on the floor and placed it in a brown envelope. The smell was nothing short of gagging, but they'd developed a strange tolerance to that sort of thing. "Weird." whispered Warrick, putting away the sample. Out came a small, black brush. "The receiver's still alright, considering." He dusted it for prints, knowing that they'd probably never be able to find any clues with all the tens of prints on there. Sure enough, he lifted sets of five at a time if not more. 

A small scrap caught Grissom's eye; just outside the phone booth. He heard Warrick tell him something about getting boxes from the car for the appendages, but beyond that, he'd zoned out. With a set of immaculate tweezers, he lifted a black scrap of material, holding a rather pleasant surprise. 
Three initials had been expertly sewn on.

"Catharine, Nick, how nice to find you in my neck of the woods." Doctor Al Robbins; coroner. Perhaps the least liked of all professions, sharing the stage with at a guess, undertaking. The term Chief Medical Examiner would be more palatable to most. But, being a man surrounded by those of the inanimately inclined, he turned out to be one hell of a nice guy. His thirty odd years of experience and sharp eye made him an invaluable member of the team; one who, at present, had some very interesting information indeed. He'd finished his preliminary report, cleaning up the body and collecting samples where he could. 

"What've you got for us?" Nick asked. He gave a short shudder; it was always cold in there, done so to keep the bodies from rotting. And the smell; dry air, antiseptic, musky, a hint of some sort of starchy fluid. 

"First of all, a name." He handed Catharine a slim folder. "Meet Dennis Marten. Rigor mortis is in it's final phase; forty hours since time of death by my estimation." They all moved over to the body, and as he pulled back the sheet, the two read over the file. "According to the clipping in there, this guy was on his way to becoming a multi-million dollar sports hero. That's if you believe what you read in the paper." 

"The article came out five months ago." she said, holding up the clipping. 

"I remember this guy. He was supposed to be America's answer to Beckham. He'd been in talks with Ajax Amsterdam; thought that the clubs here were taking too long to get their act together." Catharine looked at him with a raised brow. "I'm a bit of a soccer fan." 

Al smiled and shook his head. "Let me take it from the top." He turned Marten's head and showed them the abrasion on the back of his neck. They recognized it as a muzzle stamp. 

"He was held at gunpoint." volunteered Nick. 

"Next, we have these." He rolled him to his side somewhat; enough to show them the heavy clotting of blood underneath his legs. They'd ballooned in size; what would be considered normal of an athlete his height and build. "Bed sores. From the severity I'd wager that he's been sitting in that chair for about a month, maybe a little less." 

"It's probably got something to do with the muzzle stamp." 

"Now here's the real doozy. I removed tissue samples from various areas of the body." He took a rather amazed breath before carrying on. "It seems that his muscles have suffered severe stress; the kind of damage produced by pushing the body to its limit. The problem comes with the correlation of times between the tissue's degradation and the bed sores. The muscle was torn, after the bed sores were formed." 

"How's that possible?" 

He shrugged. "You should understand that these are initial findings. I've sent his blood, serrosanguinous fluid, saliva, skin, hair; the works, off for testing. We'll know more when the results come back; enough to form plausible hypotheses." 

"Thanks Al." Catharine took one last look at the body, before taking off, followed by her colleague. 

"I'm competitive. I know I am; it's no secret." Sara crossed her long, jean clad legs and tried to get more comfortable. "But I don't let it overpower me. In fact, I let it work in my favour. The cases that I handle are done with more speed and precision when I'm competitive... driven. I've been like that since I was a kid, and I'll probably still be like that when I'm seventy." 

"You're proud of it, and you should be. Competition is part of human nature." The sound of Jevan's French manicured nails came as a mild 'ting' when she wrapped her hand around her water glass. "But are you happy where you are?" 

She took a second to think about it. "Of course, I like Las Vegas, and I love CSI." 

It didn't seem that that was the answer Jevan was looking for, but she accepted it all the same. "How would you evaluate your relationship with your colleagues?" 

"It's good." She nodded, more to herself than the pleasant woman opposite her. "I mean... look, when you work together with someone for years, there's bound to be a connection. More than just colleagues." 

Jevan cocked her head to the side in mild amusement. "Anyone in particular?" 

For a woman so smart, it shouldn't have taken her the time it did to register the question. "Oh... no, no, not like that. Nothing like that. I meant friends, more than colleagues, so... friends. And with certain people it amounts to more than that, and you become like family. Or at least what I think that that kind of family should feel like. I was an only child so I don't know what it's like to have brothers and sisters." 

"Do you think that that's hampered you?" 

"No, I'm good at what I do. Someday I'll be the best, but the only way I can do that is through experience and I can't hope to gain it all in a couple of months or even years. I've never felt less hampered." 

"In regards to your line of work, yes, but how about socially?" asked Jevan. "I know that being so busy trying to get to the top means that other things must fall away." 

Sara silently agreed. "That's why I have to get to where I want to go. At least once I reach that goal, all of the things that I've had to sacrifice won't have been in vain." She hadn't ever really stopped long enough to think about what they were talking about and what she was saying, and now that she was, the words coming out of her mouth were unfolding to her as to Jevan. 

"A noble precept by any standard, but have you thought about the gravity of those sacrifices?" 

"What do you mean?" 

"Think Sara, I know that you know." The words seemed to be slowly prying open those thought processes of her mind. 

"Women are married at my age, stuck at home looking after three kids and two dogs, having to give up on their dreams because the world deems it normal, and fit to do so. Society seems to think that that's true achievement for a woman; I don't. I'm happy, and I don't need a white picket fence and station wagon to stay that way." 

"Good, as long as you're happy." she smiled. "But understand that the law of nature sometimes has control over us in ways we cannot just walk away from. From time to time, you need to allow your mind to step aside, and act with your instinct; your heart." 

"Does this come with your full endorsement and a lifetime back guarantee?" laughed Sara. 

"Well, the first part anyway." she chuckled. "Take my advice when you get the chance, it'll do wonders. My life improved drastically when I did." 

Sara followed her in standing, realizing that the session was over. "I'll try." With that, she walked back to the office, thinking honestly about all that had just been said. 

End Chapter Two 


End file.
